Veil
by shattered petal
Summary: Heavy is the head that wears the crown. -HitsuMatsu


**Title**: Veil  
**Genres**: Romance/Angst  
**Rating**: T  
**Couple**: HitsuMatsu

* * *

She wears white at his funeral.

The rain is a blunt weapon against them. Ice melts, and the sun hides. Soaked, he says nothing, sighs, and wishes he is immortal. That he be indestructible, invincible, because that way, he foolishly thinks, he'll live forever. Nothing can beat him, not even the heart. Yet, he is a naïve boy, inexperienced with pain, oblivious. The moment his eyes catch hers, a flash of a second, an abrupt, powerful moment, he only has one wish left. Tōshirō's wings snap.

Maybe, she's thankful he arrived, thankful that he, at least, pities her enough to be at this man's funeral. No remorse or grief is shared, just a bitter loathing. She knows what he's thinking: the grave is undeserving, and he would spit at the man's corpse if she wasn't there, if she didn't matter. Yet, she does, and she always will. Blood pools the earth, and he catches a tear, quickly looking away, as if _afraid_ to see her agony. He also knows that she'd rather he didn't witness her cry, not for anyone. That she, too, is stone, like him.

Tōshirō pretends it's the rain, not tears which trickle down her cheeks. When her heart breaks, the ground beneath him shakes, rips open, and he trips, falls. There is no one to help him up, to help him stand, the shield has shattered, fallen into his palms, sharp pieces, destroyed, only fixed by gentle, caring hands. He squeezes the shards, cuts his skin, blood pouring from his flesh, trickling down his arms, a river of red. In many ways, in every way, she tears him in two, and she has no idea.

Ice buries his heart, buries his very soul, and hardens. Never melts. When he looks at her, afterwards, the joy is gone, vanished. It begins, the misery, depression, and the loss. A feeling he shall never understand, never _want_ to understand. There is only one thing he can say. 'Do you still have my back, Matsumoto?' Let the world crash around them, let murder and rabid men destroy morality and sense, let his insanity take control. He doesn't care. There is only one question, one answer, one silent agreement.

Her eyes glow; the rain doesn't suit her. 'You don't have to ask, Captain.' Always, she'll be a constant, a shadow, _his_ shadow. He knows she'll follow him to the grave, take the blow, offer her very soul for his, she is an angel, a broken, terrible, bright angel. Punished by the Gods, punished, laughed at, mocked, for absolutely no reason.

The glow decays, the sun never reappears.

Darkness.

* * *

It is a smile he craves for, but never receives. Days pass, and she is a ghost, silent, awfully silent. He tries to speak, to say something, but he is not a man with a voice. He never was. Instead, he leaves her be, lets her friends worry. She is not his responsibility, her mentality is none of his business. There are days, though, when she wishes he'll look at her, yell at her to get a grip, to stop this, because even she knows she's different. She's not _human_. Death hangs above her head, and she waits for the axe to fall, waits for mercy.

He can't feel warm. Even during the summer, he isn't warm. The boy is cold, the weather is nothing, the weather is _weak_. She, however, carries his soul in her hands, and pulls, rips. The warmth in her gaze has vanished, the warmth in her touch is no more. She hasn't hugged him in months, hasn't smiled in weeks, hasn't been herself. Tōshirō hates her. He hates her for succumbing to her emotions, for letting the world stop at her feet, for not forgetting.

To let the ghosts sing.

Hitsugaya is patient. After a while, he notices a lightness in her step, and he wonders if the nightmares have ceased, if sleep has been granted. He wonders if the plagues are gone, if the man's voice has left her mind. Someone claims she's better, that her depression has gone, that she is herself again. When she smiles at him, though, for the first time in weeks, he doesn't smile back.

For it is not her smile he sees. It is forced, filled with guilt.

The office is dead, life is dead. The world around him is dead. Glee has abandoned his body, and the snow is unwelcoming. Monsters whisper in his ears, and the darkness has never looked so ugly. He needs a light, for he'll only trip and fall. Tōshirō is useless without the sun, without the guide, without his weapon, his friend, his companion, his heart, _her_.

* * *

The loss of Hyōrinmaru carves the end.

At night, he is calling in his dreams, screaming, and he wakes up, screaming also, sweating. But breathing. The night grins, and he is suddenly so alone. Gripping onto the bed sheet, he swallows, closes his eyes, tries to rid of the demons, the horrors. The boy allows his mind to take control, to think, to search, and he finds her. Her face, so bright, so wonderful, so... _broken_. It is her gaze, those first few years he joined the Gotei, the warmth and love in her eyes, a sea of mystery, of wonder, of magnificence, of a past filled with pain, filled with betrayal, filled with tears.

Then, the gaze hardens, the smile is destroyed, torn from her fragile face. Everything triggers, everything. All he sees is guilt, sadness, regret, pain, _anger_. In so many ways, he is grateful to not have been there when Gin died, to watch her burst into tears, to cry. Shaking, his eyes shoot open, and he gasps, and wonders where she's gone. Why she left him. Her body is there, but her soul is not. As if Gin took it when he passed on, took him with her. So Tōshirō was abandoned. Left alone. Left without his armour, a pathetic, little insignificant child.

A storm plays, thunders, and he dances within it. He has lost his companion, Hyōrinmaru, but he doesn't falter, doesn't surrender. The boy holds his head high, wants her to see him _move on_, go forwards, take a leap. Unsheathing the blade, he asks to be taught again, from the start. He admits defeat, but he doesn't surrender, he stands, and he is a master of his own. Loss is not enough, not enough to break him. He is not like her.

When he trains, she watches, from the doorway, quiet. He practises hard, focussed, too hard. Blood and sweat drips from his forehead and limbs. Fatigue runs through his eyes, bruised shoulders, exhaustion, labour. He is in agony. But he will never stop. The boy is a machine, and she is scared for him. She has never witnessed such power, such passion–– so desperate. _So young_. It is not Gin anymore who pulls at the heart, mocks her.

It is a restless game, she and emotions. And, suddenly, Tōshirō is the King. No longer a Prince, but a man. He has been a man all along.

Weeks pass, months, and she talks to him, properly. She says he's grown, and he realises she's telling the truth, he reaches past her shoulders. Rangiku teases him, admits he still has some catching up to do, and he is happy to hear her. To hear her voice, but she's still _incomplete_. A piece of her is still missing. A large piece, and he hopes he'll one day find it. Fix her. However, he is naïve. It is much too late for him to fix her; the damage has been made, the damage has scarred. Scars cannot be remedied.

No other truth has hurt him as much as this. The boy may be a lord of ice, but he is still young, still vulnerable. His worst enemy becomes himself. Looking in the mirror, he is frightened of what he sees, this approaching tyrant escaping, this horrid, desperate man. He doesn't recognise this feeling. He doesn't recognise _himself_. Slowly, he grows, and she watches him grow, from an infant, to a boy, to a man, a tall, cold, hardened man. Ice. Freezing to touch. Men and women shiver around him, they avoid him, are scared of him, don't know him.

And he doesn't even know himself anymore.

* * *

When he is fully grown, the blizzard bows before him. Hyōrinmaru has returned to his callous, cold hand. Now, he is no child. He is powerful, ridiculously so, he has trained too much. Shinigami, far older than he, are no match. Many hate the idea of him becoming Captain-Commander, but Tōshirō never dreams of an honour. It is not league he wishes for. Never league, never domination, never destruction, never rule. Never has he wished to be King.

For years, he has only ever had one wish.

The innocence in his face has gone, his childish appearance vanished. There is nothing _childish_ about him anymore. His skin is rough, slightly tanned, and his eyes a bright, gorgeous green. Although his thick hair is as white as snow, he is _dark_. His eyes are shadowed, and he appears frightening, intimidating, almost ugly. Scars from the past litter his flesh, and he is a true warrior, borne from the ash, retrieving the blade, and fighting till death.

And he is cold. His tongue is harsh, his voice deep, biting. A roar. Rangiku knows his friends don't recognise him anymore, they fear what he is becoming, they have observed his abilities, watched him dual. She doesn't want to believe it, but she knows the wounds he bares are created by her. It is impossible to even _consider_ she has that much of an effect on him. That he carries her pain too, that he spends nights _wishing_ for her to be happy. He wishes to see her smile, just one more time, to relieve the agony, to relieve everything. To relieve her.

A smile. One smile.

He misses her dearly, and she realises how selfish and awful she is. That her heart has been victim to tricks, and yet her heart has fired back, and played tricks on those who are undeserving. Hitsugaya has been her victim, her claws have ran deep into his flesh, oozed blood, and anger. Despair. Maybe it is no surprise that when she talks to him, he only offers short responses, barely acknowledges her, and she hopes he hasn't forgotten about her. That she is _nothing_ to him.

One day, she holds his hand, and his body is electrified with warmth and he looks at her sharply. There it is, she. A smile reaches her lips, 'Have coffee with me.' It is a smile he hasn't witnessed in so long, and she watches his hardened gaze relax, consider her invitation, and she sighs in relief when he accepts. She never lets go.

The damage is still there. For him, and for her. She is talking to him, like before, before everything, but there is still something missing. _That piece_. He is a quiet man, always has been, and so he listens to her, listens to her ramble on about nothing. Watches for a smile, a laugh, a glint of hope in her eyes that, maybe, the future isn't so grim after all. Yet he spots the black rings under her eyes, the lies in her words, the haunting memories. A torn, rotting soul. And he is awed, awed that anyone can be so corroded within, but so beautiful.

When she looks away from him, he shivers.  
When she looks at him, his heart starts to beat again.

Life pauses, in just a moment, when she holds his gaze, her eyes, so bright, so wonderful, catching his own. _We're not children anymore, Rangiku. Are we?_ But he is a blunt, frozen man, and he doesn't stay long. He isn't able to. When he walks away, he remembers her face, how her smile vanished, how her eyes fell, how she made it very clear that he, too, is her happiness. That they are _incapable_ without the other, they depend too much on each other, need each other, to move on. To stab at their fears and nightmares, allow the blood to trickle, pour.

It is a rare moment, when he has a sudden desire to touch her. Feel her bare flesh under his fingertips, have her against his body, feel her heat, hear her gasp, moan, whisper his name. Yet, whenever he reaches, she smiles, vanishes, is ash at his fingertips, crumbling. He cannot touch her, she's too far away, detached. Ruined.

* * *

A war cries. Long, long ago did the Shinigami face the Quincy, face a reluctant fate. Now, history seems to repeat itself, and he orders her not to die. It is his only command, and she promises. Seals everything between them, the ribbon tied. And he trusts her. He watches her, then smiles, crookedly, daringly, like the devil. There is no one else he would rather stand beside, no one he would rather fight with, she is his shadow, and without a shadow, he isn't alive.

But survival is no easy consequence. Tōshirō can't watch her, for distracting himself would be dangerous. For him, for everyone and for her, he has to concentrate. But his body is warm, his heart is beating, furious against his ribcage. Even when he performs Bankai, her heat wraps around his cold, freezing body and holds him close. He can imagine her embracing him, like she used to, pressed him to her so tightly, he never really understood why until today.

He is a dragon, ripping through the bodies of his enemies, painting the earth with ice, shattering men into tiny shards. Icy flowers erupt from their chest, burst their organs, and he is victorious. He shines above the rest, but he doesn't care for reputation, or for his image. The war drags on, and he doesn't see her once, doesn't watch her fight, doesn't know for certain if she has obeyed his order, or if she has slipped, let fate take her from him. _Again_.

By the end, all he wants is her, to see her. When he does, the sun shines, and he sheathes his zanpakutō, and the relief he feels is indescribable. A calmness washes through him, and he brushes a thumb across a bloody cheek, and, for her, his eyes soften a little, and the ice melts. Gradually. He can feel the light returning, the darkness shying away.

He sees his reflection in her eyes.

* * *

Unfortunately not all Shinigami survived. A grave is dug for each warrior, and he stands, watches the performance, and never sheds a tear. They will not want him to weep, he is not a man of sadness, he is empty, hollow. A war is no war without death, even for the good saints. When the funerals finish, he stands at a grave, studies the stone, and, then, it is snowing. Flakes fall into his hair, melt at his skin, and he looks up at the blue sky.

Turning, his shadow is beside him, waiting on orders. He has retired for the hour, sheathed the blade, fallen. It has become shameful that looking at her brings peace to his mind, that she is his only joy, that she allows his feet to move. She is his only remedy, the only spirit which accepts his curses. Many scowl and loathe him, but there is nothing but love in her gaze, a fondness he missed.

But he is a destroyed victim, too, and only he can discover the part which escaped, the part which cannot be discovered. He can search for thousands of years, and he'll never find this piece. It is only then he realises he _is_ that piece he has wanted to find. It is only he.

She wears white.

Her lips are warm, a little chapped from the cold weather, and his touch is rough, full of a passion he didn't know he possessed. They kiss, so suddenly, so _abruptly_, so inexplicably. Rangiku isn't used to his affections, they are unusual, uncertain. She has to balance herself, she might fall back if she isn't careful, his lips are forceful, his tongue pushing, wanting. Though, there is a strange gentleness to his kiss, his hand soft, aiding at the back of her head, and he sighs, loves her.

When they pull apart, she gasps, breathes against his lips, runs a hand through his hair, squeezes. It is only she who has the courage to move away, and as soon as she does, he can no longer breathe. Stopping what they had was a mistake, a dreadful, fatal mistake, but she is already gone. He cannot run after her, he will never run after her. He is not a man who runs for what he has missed. He stays, watches her walk away, no words, no calls, nothing.

A blizzard approaches, and his feet bury in the snow. He is a walking statue, cold, bitter, still.

And she, the Goddess, an awakening of the beast which lurks within. The chains are broken and she carries the burden, the weight of such a creation, and stands. There is a sharp pain in her neck, though, the weight is too much. So it is. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. A jewel, carefully placed, engraved into her skull. She sees a King, he sees a Queen.

White. So pure, so angelic, so soft. So _empty_, a colour stolen from its shades, torn apart. A lonely colour, but beautiful. She is the very essence of it.

Tōshirō follows the sun. The glow. The light.


End file.
